Days Gone By
by JPM1978
Summary: Everyone has a past, and though he'd prefer to keep it hidden, Martin Castillo is no exception.
1. Chapter 1

"Alright, Martin. Let's hear that one more time."

Eight year old Martin sighed as he glanced away from the grand piano in the family's opulently appointed parlor. Golden spring sunshine streaming through the large bay window that occupied nearly an entire wall of the room, framed by plush velvet curtains. On the other side of the crystal clear glass, the lush green lawn and deep blue Carribean sea beyond seemed to beckon. The ticking of the metronome was almost hypnotic, and young Martin knew he would prefer any activity to another half-hour of piano practice. He could run through the grounds chasing the peacocks or his pet Havanese terrier, Chico. Perhaps he'd dare to take a quick jump in the fountain to cool off if the gardener, Luis, wasn't looking. Surely the maid would scold him as usual for messing up his neatly pressed shorts and crisp white shirt. But deep in his heart, he knew it would be worth it!

Maria Castillo smoothed her long pale pink silken skirt and gently placed a hand on her son's shoulder, pulling him back to reality. "Martin, did you hear me? One more time."

"Please, Mama, can't I practice later? After dinner? I promise I'll do extra good!" He gave her a sweet grin that he knew she would find irresistable.

Maria's expression was firm, but softened as she glanced outside toward the same beautiful day her son had seen through the window. Having grown up poor in the streets of Havana and relatively new to this wealthy lifestyle, she would afford her son more joys and freedom of childhood than some of the other stuffy mothers in their neighborhood. It really was a shame to keep a child cooped up on a beautiful day. Childhood was so short after all. "Oh, alright. Just this once. And stay out of trouble, understand?"

Martin's face spread into a toothy grin. "Thanks, Mama!" In a blur, he jumped from the piano bench and sprinted across the marble floor and out the French doors to the back garden.

Maria stifled a laugh and shook her head. There was so much joy and spirit in her young son, she prayed nothing would happen to take than from him.

"Did Martin con you into ending piano practice early again?"

Maria spun around to find her husband behind her, his broad grin matching their son's perfectly. "He's very convincing, Miguel. I wonder who he could take after?" She asked playfully, putting her arms around him.

Miguel Castillo kissed his wife lovingly and gently placed his hand on her stomach. "And how is our other little one today? Maybe it's time to tell Martin that he's going to be a big brother."

"Miguel, it's still so early… I think we should wait. Besides, I kind of like having our little secret." One more playful kiss was interrupted by thundering footsteps from the hall.

"Papa! Papa! You're home!"

Miguel scooped his son up in his arms and spun him around.

"Senor Castillo! Your suit!" The housekeeper, Antonia, followed behind, fussing over the floor and Miguel, both of which were now dirty thanks to a dripping wet Martin.

But Miguel simply smiled and ruffled his son's hair. "In the fountain again, huh, kiddo?"

Martin looked sheepishly at his father. "Well, just a little," he replied with a mischievous glimmer in his eye.

"Martin, what did I tell you?" Maria shook her head.

Miguel tossed Martin in the air making him giggle before setting him down. "Better get cleaned up before dinner. You show up to the table looking like this and Antonia will really yell at you!"

"And use the stairs off the kitchen. We certainly don't need muddy footprints on the carpet, young man!" Maria called after him.

When their son was out of earshot, Miguel kissed Maria once more and put his arm around her. He rubbed her back gently, as he often did when he was about to tell her something she didn't want to hear. "Enrique is coming over tonight."

Maria frowned and shoulders slumped. Her husband's younger brother was a student at the university. He had always looked down his nose at her because of her poverty-stricken childhood, they rarely saw eye to eye on anything, and Enrique was not shy about his feeling that his brother should have married a girl from high society. Still,since the death of their parents, Miguel felt obligated to look out for his younger sibling.

"I know, I know, but he's my baby brother."

"Emphasis on the 'baby,'" Maria quipped.

Candlelight flickered from silver candlesticks on the center of the long, mahogany dining table. Martin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his meal only half finished, noticing the way his mother seemed to look at his uncle Enrique. As usual, his uncle didn't seem to notice that he existed.

"It's getting louder on the streets, Miguel. Might be wise to cut our losses and head to Miami."

"Don't you think it's a bit soon to do something so drastic, Enrique?

Enrique seemed not to hear. "Change is in the air, it's going to leave people like us with nothing!"

"I'm not running like a coward!" Maria slammed her fork on the table with a loud clang and spoke up defiantly. "Change is necessary in this country, no one knows that more than I do! But what's happening now… it's not the way. You're twenty years old, Enrique, what do you know?"

Miguel carefully stirred his coffee and placed his hand gently over his wife's in an attempt to calm her. "Change is needed for the poor, yes, I agree. Enrique, Father left me in charge of the farms and the business, you think he'd want me to leave it all behind just like that?" He snapped his fingers for emphasis. "It's been a part of our family for generations, and perhaps someday it will be in Martin's hands as well." Miguel looked across the table and winked at his son who smiled back proudly.

Enrique turned briefly to his nephew and sneered at him before turning back to his brother. "Leave it to you to sympathize with a bunch of peasants! You think your concern for them will help you when Castro's goons come to take you to the firing squad? You think that isn't happening all around us already? People who speak out disappearing, people dying… it's not going to stop!"

Martin nervously wrung his hands under the table. His entire life had been one of privilege, his sheltered days filled with horseback riding lessons, private schooling, and socializing with the children in other elite Cuban families. Although he was vaguely aware of his mother's poor upbringing, and he had seen disheveled, shoeless people wandering the streets of Havana from the windows of his father's car, this was the first he had heard of any kind of unrest. Did people really want to take away his father's business? To kill him? It made his stomach turn a bit.

Maria's eyes seemed to blaze with fury. She glanced at her young son and saw his fearful expression. "I don't think this is the time to talk about such things, Enrique. It's getting late, perhaps you should go."

Enrique gave her the same disdainful sneer he had given Martin just moments before. He stared at his brother as though he expected Miguel to defend him, but he stood silently staring back, with an arm around his wife. "Alright then, have it your way. But mark my words, if you stay here and keep speaking your mind, they will make you regret it. Be careful, big brother." He pushed in his chair and the family could hear the heavy front door creak open then close with a loud slam.

"The nerve of that man. I can't believe you allow him to come in our home and speak to us that way! He behaves like a know-it-all child."

"Papa?" Martin spoke up. "What was Uncle Enrique talking about? Are we moving? Do people really want to kill you?"

Maria and Miguel exchanged a look as if to say "Now what?"

Miguel scooped Martin up in his arms. "Aw, you know Uncle Enrique. He just likes to hear himself talk. Don't you worry about a thing, my boy. You're safe right here with us. We won't let anything happen to our family." He reassuringly placed his other hand gently on Maria's stomach and she leaned on his shoulder.

Being safe in his father's arms reassured Martin a bit, but he still felt uneasy. What were all these changes happening that seemed to make everyone so nervous?

The large grandfather clock in the hall struck 11 as thunder crashed outside, but neither of those things were what woke Martin up on a stormy July night. Rather, it was the loud, angry voices echoing downstairs that startled him. He held his stuffed bear tighter and struggled to make out what they were saying. Was it his parents arguing? No, there was another voice speaking... a man. Enrique? No, this voice was distinctly different. The arguing grew louder and louder until he could plainly hear his mother crying. A flash of lightening illuminated the room. Shaking, he carefully stepped out of bed, pulled a bathrobe on over his pajamas and tiptoed into the hallway. Slowly he peeked around the corner near the grand staircase. From his vantage point, he could see two men in what looked like olive green military uniforms, their heads covered with matching hats. One had his father's hands secured behind his back and the other was attempting to keep his mother away. His mother was frantically trying to escape his grip, while his father tried to calm her. This scene seemed to play out in slow motion, with Martin barely able to process what was happening.

"Let him go! He's done nothing wrong!" His mother cried.

"Maria, please…" Miguel begged.

"People like you just don't know how to step aside and shut up!" one stranger yelled.

Martin spun around and sat on the floor, his back to the wall at the top of the stairs. He pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, closing his eyes tight. If he wished hard enough, maybe, just maybe, he would wake up from this nightmare. Thunder cracked in the distance once more, just before blood curdling screams rang out from downstairs, followed by a flash and a gunshot. In quick succession, another singular scream and one last gunshot. Then- deafening, sickening silence.

Martin did not move a muscle. Perhaps any moment his parents would come rushing up the stairs. His mother would hold him tight, and his father would assure him that the bad men had left. But they never came. Perhaps it was hours later when he finally gathered the courage to descend the stairs. Taking each step slowly and carefully, he froze when he reached the bottom. There, on the cold, white marble floor, lay the motionless bodies of his beloved parents. Had it not been for the crimson red blood spreading around them, one might have thought they were sleeping. Martin distinctly felt his heart stop. He wanted to scream, cry, throw himself on the floor- anything at all to keep this from being real. Instead, he stood frozen, his eight year old nine unable to process what lay in front of him.

Just then there was a rustling from the kitchen, and Martin followed his first instinct: to run. He pushed open the French doors to the garden and ran across the patio as the rain poured down. He slipped on a wet leaf and skidded on the concrete ground, scraping the length of his shin. Despite the pain, Martin wasted no time in getting to his feet and ran towards the shore.

Martin ran along the sand until he could run no more. Out of breath from running and from the harsh wind blowing against him, he felt overwhelmingly hopelessness and fearful. Where could he go? If he went home, would those people that killed his parents come looking him too? Nothing seemed safe anymore. Shivering and soaked from the rain that beat down on him, he took what shelter he could under a palm tree. Wrapping his robe tight around himself in a futile effort to stay warm, he let the tears fall from his eyes. The cold became unbearable as he shivered uncontrollably, and soon everything went dark.

"Mama? Papa?" Martin struggled to open his eyes as he called for his parents over and over. How mouth was dry and his throat was sore, but he was no longer shivery cold. Where was he? Had it all been a bad dream? Was he safe in his bed? Could he get up and run down he hall to his mother and father? His eyes began to focus. No, this was not home. His leg was bandaged and he was lying in a bed covered by stiff white sheets and a heavy, scratchy blanket. All around him were bright lights, strange smells, and stark white walls. He could vaguely make out the images of people across the room clad in all white, and heard bits and pieces of hushed conversation as rain tapped on a window nearby.

"They found him on the beach…"

"…Very high fever…"

"…just send him to an orphanage…"

"…look, he opened his eyes…"

"Little boy? Can you hear me?"

Martin blinked and focused. A nurse in a crisp white uniform, her raven hair neatly pinned away from her face, held a metal clipboard on which she tapped a pen. Her face was stern and unsmiling as she stared down at him.

"You're awake." It wasn't a question.

He nodded.

"What is your name?"

"It's - it's Martin."

She sighed with impatience. "Your _full_ name, little boy."

He felt his heart race in fear "Martin- Martin Alejandro Castillo." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Where are your parents? Why were you out in the middle of the night?" Her voice had an accusatory tone to it.

Martin felt as thought the wind had been knocked out of him. The image of the blood pooling and contrasting with the white marble floor, surrounding the bodies of his lifeless mother and father flashed in his mind, and he squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to erase it.

The nurse shook her head and scribbled something on the clipboard. "A runaway, probably," she grumbled plainly, as if Martin wasn't in the room.

"No!" He protested, louder than he intended, through his tears. "My parents are… are…" he couldn't complete the sentence band began to sob.

The nurse was unsympathetic and pressed him further. "Do you have any family at all?"

Martin sniffled and wiped his eyes with the back of his arm. "Just my uncle, Enrique. My father's brother. He's at the university."

The nurse sighed once more and turned to her co-worker. "See what you can find."

The time that followed was quiet. Martin was left alone in his hospital bed for extended periods of time, with only his thoughts and fears for company. It must have been a day later when the nurse entered his room accompanied by his uncle. Enrique wore a grey suit and carried his hat in his hands.

"This him?" The nurse gestured towards Martin coldly, as though he were a stray dog.

Enrique nodded, staring intently at his nephew. "Yes. I'll take him with me. Thank you nurse."

The nurse turned and walked from the room without making eye contact with Martin. He couldn't help but assume she was happy to be rid of him.

Enrique set a change of clothes beside Martin. "Get dressed. We're leaving now." His words were quick and emotionless. No concern for his parents, no sympathy whatsoever. Quickly, Marin quietly did as he was told. He remained silent as his uncle lead him roughly by the hand through the sterile hospital corridors. The atmosphere seemed to match Enrique's demeanor- cold and unfeeling. In the street, Martin immediately recognized his father's car and his driver Mateo waiting at the curb. He held the car door open and gave Martin a sympathetic nod as he entered. Everything was so familiar- the sights and sounds of the city, the smell of the car, the smooth leather seats- and yet still felt so foreign.

As they traversed the city streets, watching the buildings fly by, Martin wondered what would happen now. He finally gathered the courage to speak.

"Uncle Enrique… are we- are we going home now?" His voice was quiet and shook slightly. Did he really want to go back there?

Enrique squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled sharply. "No."

Martin nodded and looked down at his hands. Enrique was his only family now, he supposed he should be grateful that he came for him. Surely life with his uncle would be better than an orphanage.

Orphan. It was the first time Martin realized that's what he truly was. He quickly wiped a tear from his eye.

"And if you think I want to sit here and watch you cry about your parents, you're in for an unhappy surprise, kid. You're lucky I don't leave you on the streets, so you'd better grow up fast," Enrique snapped. "Right now we're doing what your father should have done a long time ago, if he had been smart enough to ignore your mother and her foolish pride. We're getting the hell out of this disaster of a country." He grabbed a duffle bag from the floor and thrust it at Martin. "Here. I grabbed a few things for you."

Carefully, Martin unzipped the bag. Inside, there was not much more than a few changes of clothes and a framed photograph. Part of him was surprised his uncle would think to include such a thing, but another part was grateful. The glass was shattered, but Martin immediately recognized the family portrait which had been taken only months before. His eyes filled with tears as the images of his proud, gentle, smiling parents looked back at him. As for the joyful, carefree boy in that photo- Martin scarcely recognized him. It seemed he was long gone, his innocence murdered along with his parents on that stormy night, never to return.


	2. Chapter 2

Martin was surrounded by darkness, and could hear muffled screams in the distance. He tried to cry out for his parents, and look around to find his way out of the darkness, but he could see nothing and his mouth could make no sound. Suddenly, two shots fired in the distance, followed by blinding flashes. His ears rang long after the shots had been fired. The lights came on and once again Martin found himself at the foot of the staircase in his family's grand home in Cuba. He looked down at his feet and saw a pool of crimson red blood creeping toward him. His feet seemed glued to the ground as footsteps in the distance crept closer and closer becoming louder with each step. His heart pounded in his throat, and he covered his eyes and cried out desperately, knowing he was going to meet the same fate as his parents.

"NO!" He screamed, and found himself in the dark once more, but this time sitting upright in bed drenched in sweat. Another nightmare, but no surprise. There had not been one night since he and Enrique had arrived in Miami two weeks ago where he had not been plagued by his terrifying memories at night. Breathless, he looked around at the bare walls in his new room and tried to get comfortable in his creaky bed.

The day he was released from the hospital in Havana, he and Enrique had gone directly to the airport, boarded a plane, and flown to Miami. Enrique managed to quickly find employment in a law office run by a family friend, and had rented a small, modest home for them in Little Havana. It was a far cry from his life in Cuba, but he knew he was lucky to have a roof over his head at all. After all, Enrique reminded him daily how expensive it was to look after him.

A fist pounded on the wall behind Martin's head. "Keep it down in there!" Enrique scolded angrily rom the next room.

Martin sighed and closed his eyes, and as he had each time since that horrible night, he wished he could wake up from the nightmare his life had become.

The morning that Enrique announced that they would be enrolling him in school, Martin was actually grateful. He had always been a good student, and besides, it would give him an escape from the empty house during the day.

"May I help you?" An attractive young secretary looked up from her typewriter at Martin and Enrique. She had a kind smile, curly red hair, and her bright green eyes seemed to smile as well. The plaque on her desk read "Miss Atwood."

"Yes, my name is Enrique Castillo and I'm here to enroll my nephew in school." Enrique removed his hat and gave Martin a little shove toward the secretary's desk.

"Oh yes, of course! There's just a few papers for you to fill out. I assume you are his legal guardian?"

Enrique closed his eyes and nodded sadly. "I'm afraid so. My dear brother and sister in law were tragically killed back in Cuba recently. It was quite traumatizing for the child, as you can imagine." He placed an arm around his nephew's shoulders while Martin looked up at his uncle incredulously and shifted uncomfortably at his uncle's unfamiliar touch. Since when had Enrique cared one bit about his feelings, or shown one bit of grief for his own brother's death? Martin knew from overhearing his parents nighttime conversations that his uncle had a history of being a ladies' man. And he sure was laying the charm on thick today.

Miss Atwood gasped and placed a hand over her mouth. "Oh the poor dear! You must be such a saint for taking on such responsibility! What is his name? And does he speak English?"

Martin was sick of everyone acting as though he were some sort of baby unable to speak for himself, or a stray puppy that his uncle had been gracious enough to take in. He stood up straight and spoke confidently. "My name is Martin Castillo. I'm eight years old. and I speak Spanish, English and French." He spoke with pride and it was true. Teachers at his private school in Cuba often remarked at his incredible ability to learn languages with ease.

He turned to his uncle briefly and noticed the unmistakable look of disdain on his face. Certainly he resented having the spotlight removed from himself.

The secretary smiled and raised an eyebrow. "Impressive! Martin, you'll be in the third grade with Mrs. Foster. Why don't I walk you to your class while your uncle finishes filling out these forms."

Without stopping to exchange an awkward goodbye with Enrique, Martin obediently followed Miss Atwood down the hall and to a room marked 113. Martin could hear a muffled woman's voice from inside, but when the door opened, the room fell silent and Martin could feel 30 sets of eyes focused on him.

"Mrs. Foster, pardon me, but we have a new student for you today. This is Martin Castillo"

Mrs Foster was a stout woman, with friendly eyes and a firm voice. She seemed surprised, but didn't hesitate. "Welcome to our class, Martin. Why don't you take a seat right there?" She gestured to an open seat, right in front of a boy with head full of messy chestnut brown curls.

There was a strange twinkle in this boy's eyes, and a slight smirk on his face as he leaned casually back in his seat. His size was not intimidating, but Martin also was small for his age. Martin noticed his toes poked through a hole in his shoes, which were dirty with wear. For a moment, Martin remembered the barefoot children wandering the streets of Havana that he had so often seen from the back seat of his parents' car. But at that very moment, he realized his own shoes, relics from his private school uniform, were a bit tight. But he knew better than to mention that to Enrique.

Next to him, sat a girl with raven hair and a mysterious but shy smile. She glanced at him with piercing brown eyes.

"Martin, we are about to begin our lesson, why don't you get a copy of the reader from the back shelf?"

Martin stood and turned to grab the book, but tripped on something and lost his balance. To his horror, the class erupted into giggles. Regaining his balance, he say that curly haired kid with that same smirk on his face and his foot sticking out in the aisle. Martin glared at him, and attempted to regain what dignity he had and straightened up. Out of the corner of his eye, he say the raven haired girl stare at him with sympathy.

 _Great, just great_ , he thought. _All I want to do is blend in and keep to myself. Why is that so hard?_

When the lunch bell rang, Martin took his tray and sat in a far corner of the lunchroom, praying everyone would leave him alone... no teasing, and no feeling sorry for him. But much to his dismay, the raven haired girl took a seat across from him.

"Hey, your name is Martin, right?"

He simply nodded and avoided eye contact. Maybe if he didn't engage, she'd go away.

"I'm Erendira. I hope you like our school so far, it stinks to be the new kid. I should know, I was new last year."

Behind him, Martin could hear the shuffling of feet. He turned to find himself face to face with the curly headed kid, once again with that crazy toothy grin on his face.

"Go away, Jack Gretsky. Why do you have to be such a show-off?" Erendira yelled.

Martin frowned. He didn't want this girl defending him, or this boy acting like a huge jerk.

"Hey, I was just havin' a little fun, that's all!" Jack shrugged and sat at the table beside Martin, who scowled at more unwelcome company.

Erendira turned back to Martin. "You can just ignore him. Jack is always just trying to get attention."

"C'mon. Marty here seems like a great guy!" Jack slapped him on the back.

Marty? No one had ever called him that before. Who did this Jack kid think he was? Martin didn't need friends. Having friends would lead to questions, about his family and his past… In the days since he had arrived in Miami, a despondent Martin had resigned himself to a solitary existence to avoid all of that pain. He narrowed his eyes and angrily stared back at Jack.

"Whoa, you tryin' to scare me, kid? What's your deal?"

In that moment, Martin saw red. He was overwhelmed and dangerously close to tears. There was no way he was going to let these nosey kids see that kind of vulnerability. Swiftly he grabbed his tray, tossed it in the trash and ran from the lunchroom. He was vaguely aware of other students pointing and whispering about him, but he rushed by so fast, wishing they would all just disappear.

The end of the school day could not come fast enough. But now what? He wondered. School was bad with all these new kids staring at him and teasing him, but home was not much better with Enrique grumping around and reminding him what a burden he was. Nevertheless, he did not want to risk angering his uncle more, so he began the walk home as soon as the bell rang.

Trudging down the sidewalk in the vaguely familiar neighborhood, Martin began to recognize the houses and realized he was almost home. At that moment, he heard the scraping sound of bicycle tires on the sidewalk and the ringing of a bell. "Hey! Hey kid, wait up!"

Martin groaned inwardly and stopped walking just as he had reached the front path of the home he shared with Enrique.

Jack _again_? He turned slowly, exasperated. "What do you want this time?"

Jack put one foot on the ground to stop his bike and tilted his head to the side. And did he look a little hurt?

"Wow, Marty. You really gotta work on making friends."

"I don't _need_ friends." Martin growled through gritted teeth. Why didn't this Jack kid get the hint?

"Aw, Marty! C'mon! Everyone needs friends! Don't you like to play chess? Or baseball? Or _anything_? Loosen up!"

For a moment, memories of the life he left behind just weeks ago flashed in front of Martin. Memories of riding his horse, playing baseball with the kids on his street, running through the waves on the back, chess games with his father… he felt a lump form in his throat. Quickly, he tried to regain an icy demeanor, just as the front door to the house creaked open.

Enrique stomped out onto the porch, hovering menacingly above Jack and Martin. "What the hell are you goofing around for? Don't you know I've been waiting for you?"

"I- I'm sorry." Martin stammered sheepishly. "I'll be right in."

"See that you do!" Enrique yelled, slamming the door behind himself, causing the glass in the windows to rattle.

Jack looked back to Martin with pity, as though the exchange that he had just witnessed explained a lot. "Wow, your dad is kind of a jerk."

Martin shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground, kicking a pebble with his foot. "He's not my dad," he grumbled.

If it was possible, Jack's expression was overcome with more pity, and Martin continued to avoid eye contact. He held his breath hoping Jack would not press the issue further. The last thing he wanted was Jack Gretsky, or anyone else in this town, feeling sorry for him.

"Look, I get it. You don't want to be best buds. But you can't be alone forever. Especially living with… whoever that was. If you ever want to get away and play a game or just hang out, just let me know."

Martin didn't raise his eyes up from the ground, but he nodded silently.

"See ya around, Marty!" Jack hopped on his bike, and with a ring of his bell, he rode off.

Martin sighed. Maybe Jack was right. Nobody said he had to be _friends_ with Jack Gretzky, but maybe a little baseball or chess wouldn't be so bad every now and then.


	3. Chapter 3

"Checkmate," Martin declared triumphantly, crossing his arms in front of himself and giving Jack a small smile.

Jack sighed and threw his hands into the air. "Again, Marty? Man, you gotta teach me your secrets."

Martin gave the clock on the wall of the Gretskys' living room a glance out of the corner of his eye, and jumped from his seat. "Another time, Jack. I gotta run." Quickly and nervously, Martin gathered up his book bag. He had already stayed an hour longer than he should have.

Mrs Gretsky poked her head out of the kitchen. "Martin, please, join us for dinner," she pleaded kindly in her thick Russian accent.

"Yeah, c'mon Marty. No school tomorrow, and you can't miss my mom's stroganoff. It's out of this world!"

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Gretsky," Martin replied politely. "But my uncle's expecting me home tonight."

"Oh yeah, Mr. Personality," Jack grumbled following Martin to the front door. "That guy is so full of himself. Acting like the King of Monaco living right here in Little Havana. You'd think he grew up with servants or something and just can't get used to living like us low-life peasants," Jack rolled his eyes to punctuate his sarcasm.

Martin was tempted to say something, but kept his mouth closed as he waved goodbye.

In the nearly four years since that day they had met in third grade, Jack and Martin had been inseparable. Martin was skinny and still small for his age, also quiet and withdrawn, not a recipe for popularity in seventh grade. But none of that seemed to matter to Jack. The two met nearly every day for a game of chess, a swim on the beach, or a game of catch. In fact, Martin had nearly become an honorary member of the Gretsky household. Mrs. Gretsky would make minor repairs to his clothing, and Mr. Gretsky would help him with his advanced math homework. But still, despite their closeness, Martin had revealed frustratingly little about his own past. Jack still felt his friend kept him at an arms length, being careful to avoid revealing anything about his childhood or the circumstances leading up to his arrival in Miami. Most people thought Marty was shy, or worse, weird. But somehow Jack knew there was more to his friend than met the eye.

He was still such a mystery, one Jack was determined to solve.

Martin skidded to a stop when he reached home and his heart skipped a full beat when he noticed Enrique's car already in the driveway. His stomach began to turn. Martin had promised to be home by five, but figured there was no harm in staying out until six since Enrique had said he wouldn't be home until 8 or 9. What had happened?

Martin took a deep breath before turning the key in the lock of the front door. His entire life with Enrique had been spent walking on eggshells, trying not to anger him with a word or a look. Over the years he had become accustomed to his uncle's temper, and learned that if he accepted the beating without cowering and defending himself, it would be over quickly, with nothing more than a slap or a shove against a wall. The pain had just become a way of life.

The key turned and the door opened with a creak. Martin didn't realize he had been holding his breath ever since he stepped on the porch. Carefully, he peeked inside and entered the living room on silent feet. Maybe, just maybe, he could make it to his bedroom before he was noticed.

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Like a ghost, Enrique materialized in front of him, his voice booming and his intimidating form towering over him.

"I- I'm sorry. I was just…"

"You were just what?"

"I- I was with a friend from school. I didn't think you'd be home until later… " Martin's voice shook.

Enrique drew in a breath angrily through his nose. "Well, I was _supposed_ to be home later. I was _supposed_ to be out with this beautiful girl I met at work. I was _supposed_ to have a shot at getting married and having the normal life of a twenty-four year old in this country, but no. I had yet another date that was over before it really had a chance to start, and do you know why? _Do you_?" His voice echoed in the room so loudly that Martin wondered for a moment if the neighbors could hear.

Martin shook his head slowly, his eyes focused on the floor. He shoved his hands in his pockets so Enrique wouldn't see them shake.

"Once again, I made the mistake of mentioning _you. You,_ the little burden my dearly departed brother and his whore of a wife left me with." Enrique grabbed Martin by his shirt collar and threw him to the floor. "And what do I get for being your benevolent guardian? For feeding you and putting a roof over your head? I get an ungrateful brat who sneaks around and disobeys me! You may have had everything when your parents were alive, but now you're just worthless." On the floor, Martin curled up in a futile attempt at defense, but just as quickly Enrique hauled him back up. In a blur, his fist made contact just above his eye, and Martin felt the unmistakable sensation of blood dripping down his face. "Look at me!" Enrique spat, his face just inches from Martin's, his hands still firmly grasping his shirt collar, shaking him violently.

Tears stung Martin's face painfully. "I'm sorry…" he pleaded. Martin felt his heart pounding wildly. Enrique had been angry before. Hell, he had been angry nearly nightly. And a beating had not been unheard of, and from time to time Martin would be left with a bruise here and there, but nothing like this. This time Martin actually feared for his life.

Enrique increased his grip on Martin, nearly causing him to choke. He dragged his nephew to his bedroom and threw him on the bed. "Sorry? You're _sorry_? You think that's enough to undo everything you've caused me? You are aware that those soldiers intended to leave no survivors the night your parents were killed. They were looking for you and if you hadn't been so quick, you'd be dead too! Do you really think you were _supposed_ to have survived?"

At first, Martin was startled by that revelation, but it was something his heart had known all along, ever since that night. He sat up on his knees boldly and stared his uncle in the eye. "Yes. Yes I _do_ think I was meant to live! Why don't _you_?"

It seemed as if time stood still, as the two stared at one another in a silent standoff, Enrique's eyes boring through his nephew with flames of hatred, and Martin staring back defiantly.

"Don't leave this room until I tell you to," Enrique instructed through gritted teeth, and added with cruel sarcasm, "Good night, sweet prince." The door slammed hard behind him, rattling the glass in the window.

Painfully, Martin lay back on his pillow. He wished he had some ice to calm the swelling above his eye, or a drink of water to soothe his throat. But most of all, he wished he could have fought back.

Martin wasn't sure when he fell asleep, but it was the incessant tapping on his window that woke him in the morning. He tried to rub the sleep from his eyes, but the intense stinging sensation warned him not to. Suddenly, the memories of the night before flooded his mind, momentarily distracting him from the tapping at the window which grew louder by the minute. Stretching his sore muscles, he walked to the window and threw open the torn, dusty curtains to reveal Jack's grinning face pressed up against the glass. Sighing, Martin opened the window.

"Hey Marty! Thought we'd head over to the beach today, what d'ya…" Jack stopped short, his mouth gaped open as he stared at his friend with concern. "Damn, Marty, what the hell happened to you?"

Martin tried to cover his eye as Jack climbed through the window. "It's nothing. Jack, you should go."

"Shit Marty, you shouldn't be walkin' around town starting fights."

"I didn't, and would you lower your voice? He'll hear you."

"'He'? Oh wait one damn minute, did Uncle Jackass do this to you?"

He hesitated and turned away from Jack. . "I was late, and he was already mad about some other stuff."

Jack was incredulous. "There's nothing you could have done to deserve this. You're not safe here, Marty. Why are you stuck with him? Where are your parents?"

Martin turned away from his friend, silent, hoping it would send a message of warning to Jack. There were certain things he didn't want to re-visit.

Jack sighed, fully aware that Marty was never going to open up. Just then, the corner of something caught his eye under Martin's bed and a small voice in his head told him to pick it up. Martin's room was stark, and void of any real personal effects, so this item stood out. Carefully, Jack withdrew a black and white family portrait of a man, woman and child, and studied it. The man and woman looked serious and proud, not to mention rich. The man stood in a handsome black suit and her in an elegant gown, both posed in front of an ornately carved fireplace. The woman was seated in an antique chair with her husband standing behind her. At her side, was a boy, maybe six or seven years old. He too stood as straight as royalty, dressed in a perfectly clean and neat suit. Certainly it was nicer than anything Jack had ever owned. Who were these people? It seemed they were from another world, but yet there was something familiar about it.

"Marty, this is you!" Jack exclaimed as if he had just made an amazing discovery.

Spinning around wide-eyed, Martin grabbed the portrait away from Jack and clutched it to his chest. "So what if it is?" he snapped, his voice dangerously loud.

"Those are your parents, and that's you but that sure as hell is not this house. Who _are_ you?"

"You _know_ who I am, and that kid in the picture isn't me! Not anymore at least."

"But what…"

Martin cut him off, frustrated that Jack felt a need to relentlessly pry into his past. "I was born in Cuba, you _know_ that. Yeah, my family was rich. That's our house in the picture. It was huge and fancy and from the balcony off of my room I could look out on to the Caribbean every morning. We had servants, and I had my own horse and went to a fancy private school. So what? None of that matters anymore!"

"Are your parents still there? Why did they leave you in the hands of Prince Charming?"

Would Jack never be satisfied? "They're dead!" Martin hissed. "They were murdered in front of me. I heard the gunshots and their screams, I saw their bodies, the blood on the floor… and like a coward I ran away into the night. But if I hadn't, those soldiers would have killed me too. I'm _supposed_ to be dead. But here I am, a burden to my uncle, just a scrawny unwanted nobody. Satisfied? Is that what you want to hear?"

Jack was uncharacteristically quiet as he stared down at his hands. For once, he didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry, Marty." He stood and crawled out the window as Martin stayed silent, kneeling on the bed, staring at the shattered family portrait.

On the walk home, Jack felt a mixture of shame and sadness. Perhaps shouldn't have pressed his friend to share more than he was wiling. But there were two things that were for certain. First, Jack would need to teach Martin how to fight. And second, that prick Enrique would suffer for what he did. "Time to take out the trash," Jack whispered to himself, his face spreading into his trademark grin.

Enrique pulled the door to the office shut. _Another day, another dollar_ , he thought to himself as he waved goodbye to the secretary.

 _Damn, what I wouldn't give to be able to go to a night club, dance with a few ladies, maybe take one home, if I was lucky…but no, instead I'm stuck wiping the nose of my brother's brat,_ Enrique thought, shaking his head. _Leave it to Miguel to settle down with the first woman to give him a second look, pop out a kid, then go and die and leave me to pick up the pieces._

Enrique was so deep in his own thoughts, that it was a complete blur when he was grabbed from behind, dragged in an alley, and shoved up against a wall. With his face to the wall and his hands painfully secured behind his back, Enrique could not see his attacker, but could tell that whoever it was was significantly smaller than he, but with strength to spare.

"Who are you? What do you want? I have nothing, I swear!" Enrique's voice was muffled by the wall, and his attacker shoved him further into it.

"I don't want your money, I just want to teach you a lesson."

"Who- who are you?" Enrique was not small, but he had grown up the pampered youngest son of a cigar mogul. His young days were spent playing polo and wining and dining elite young ladies, not fighting it out in the streets. Beating Martin had been one thing, but whoever this was, would not be easy to overcome. Still, he used all his strength to push off his assailant. He still could not make out his face, only the long black coat he wore. He attempted to swing at him, but missed and this time found himself knocked to the ground, his head spinning.

"What do you want? Just let me go!" Enrique pleaded once more.

"I hear you like to beat up little kids? How does it feel now?" the voice growled.

Enrique felt another sharp blow to his head. This wasn't just some street punk, something about whoever this was was lethal. "Stop! Please! I'll do anything!"

"Not so tough, are you? Here's what's going to happen, you'll never lay a hand on your nephew ever again."

Enrique caught his breath. "Martin?" he whispered. No, it couldn't be. Martin was barely strong enough to swat a fly.

"If you do," the attacker continued, "I'll find out. And you won't get away so easily next time."

Suddenly, Enrique felt himself released. He quickly looked up from the dusty ground to catch a glimpse of his attacker, but he was gone, almost as if he had disappeared into thin air.

 _Who, or what, the hell was that?_ He wondered.


End file.
